


Aftermath

by holmesian_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:26:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22191022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesian_love/pseuds/holmesian_love
Summary: But images always entered his mind of their many stolen intense moments. Just glimpses of understanding between them that made Sherlock quite sure that being with John would be anything but boring.Fix fic - after the tarmac sceneSherlock and John discover some truths in the aftermath of an "accident" following the "return" of Moriarty and Sherlock's sudden return from exile.
Relationships: Johnlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 67





	1. Back Home

**Author's Note:**

> A slightly longer and more involved attempt after my first fic, as a post season 3 finale fix.

It was so nice to be home at Baker Street. The strangely short plane ride and ensuing drama had been stressful enough for a couple of lifetimes and Sherlock was just happy to be back, thanks to Mycroft, already busying himself in the kitchen with an unfinished experiment he’d forgotten about, while letting his mind wander to how he was going to tackle the return of Moriarty. If it was indeed a return at all. He already had 6 possible ideas.

But he didn’t like this other unsettling feeling that wouldn’t subside in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t the danger that bothered him- that was exciting as always. Solving this new twist with Moriarty was fascinating. But it was… the image of John drifted into his brain… _John_.

”Shut up” he said to the empty room. The name sort of lingered there like words floating in mid air. He couldn’t get rid of the image in his head, the look on John’s face as they stood on the tarmac, desperately trying to say something, or perhaps not say something. There was something in that look that Sherlock couldn’t deduce. He waved his hand at the air, at the imagined word and it vanished like he had parted a cloud of smoke in the air… _ah smoke, I could really use a cigarette right about now._ “Shhhh” Sherlock tried to quiet his mind but it clearly wasn’t working.

John. For years now, he had regretted the very moment he had defensively announced that he wasn’t interested in John. _John, while I’m flattered by your interest…_

He winced as the vivid memories of that first dinner flooded him again. It had only taken him the rest of that very same night before he knew he had been wrong about John. Wrong about _himself_. He had always prided himself on being above all that _feeling_ nonsense. Work. The work was what was important. No one really ever understood that. No one really understood _him_ and how his mind worked, or appreciated it. Even his brother taunted him constantly. It was very easy to stay away from _people_ when you had an intellect like that. Relationships were almost always out of the question. Well there was _The Woman_. But that was more a fascination with someone that was finally more complex and worthy of his attention. Interesting. Her sexual confidence also awed him a little and made him curious. Despite her being interested in women, the feeling was mutual for her too. It was a nice distraction. Not one he would ever pursue but interesting none-the-less. It passed the time. Sherlock also liked the way John almost showed a hint of jealousy around her. It was one of the few times he felt he had seen a glint of possibility. Or maybe he imagined it. He did have an active imagination, admittedly.

“SHUT. UP. Stop it! Seriously, I’m trying to work!” Sherlock shouted at himself, into the kitchen void. Shaking his head, the curls bouncing wildly with the movement. Sometimes being brilliant really was a burden. When your brain didn’t want to work the right way, at least.

His mind palace started to creep further open, fragments of moments strewn on the floor demanding his attention… _John taking the lead with military authority on a case…running through the streets of London…out of breath laughter…the Fall._

That thought jolted him. It was the hardest thing he had ever had to do, pretending to be dead, all the while hearing John’s cries for him. Realising just how much he had meant to John and it being too late to stop the wheels in motion. He broke every rule by going to the cemetery and waiting for John. Fascinated to watch him finally showing some feelings, some sense of just how much their friendship had meant. For a brief moment he wanted to walk over to him, confess it all so they could take on the world together.

But he knew that John didn’t feel that way _. NOT GAY. So many times he had told Sherlock and everyone that would listen. To the point of irritation, in fact. Did he have to be so insistent? But those brief flickers of moments. Sometimes he really thought maybe…_

“Oh seriously. SHUT UP! This won’t do at all. I need a cigarette!” He swirled his dressing gown to the side dropping any pretense at finishing the experiment on the table and walking to his skull on the mantel where he had a packet hidden and sat himself in the comfort of his chair.

As he puffed on the glorious last cigarette from his hiding place, he tried to clear his head by discarding all his previous thoughts but looking over at John’s empty chair just made it worse.

_John always did stick to conventions. Women. Rules. Boring. John would be boring. There. That should settle that._

But images always entered his mind of their many stolen intense moments. Just glimpses of understanding between them that made Sherlock quite sure that being with John would be anything _but_ boring.

_John had been so mad at him on the plane, though. Leaving with Mary. **Mary.** It irked Sherlock that John loved her so. Now **she** was interesting. Not to Sherlock’s tastes, obviously. But not John’s usual boring selection of woman either. And he admitted to himself that he had hoped when she shot him, John might have left her. Come back to him. But John really loved her. Had forgiven her all of that. For the baby. Loyal. He liked to be around them just to watch John look at her, and imagine what would have been if John had looked at **Sherlock** like that. Like that first night at the restaurant when he… _

“Oh my god why can’t you just SHUT UP!? I have work to do for _god’s sake_!” He leapt from the chair, throwing his cigarette butt into the fireplace in frustration and grabbing his knife and stabbing into the old mail beneath it, just for good measure.

As he resolved to get back to work, his phone rang. _Lestrade._ _Excellent. A case will get me back on track._

“Sherlock?” His voice sounded quiet, strangled. _Not a case then? Interesting._

“Where do you need me? I’m already putting on my coat. Any news on Moriarty? I can be there immediately. Tell me you have a gruesome murder. Something not boring.”

The sound of an unsteady intake of breath from the other end of the phone was unsettling.

“Sherlock… it’s… you need to come. John needs you.”

“What? I don’t understand. Where?”  
  
“The hospital. Just come. I have a police car two minutes away. Be ready.”

“What?! What’s happened to _John_?”

“Just get here.”

Sherlock froze. _John? They had only just left each other at the airport! What in god’s name?_ His heart rate immediately was racing, glancing around the room frantically. _Out of cigarettes -_ _damn it_. He ran to his room and grabbed a box of nicotine patches. _That would settle the nerves._ Nothing stronger in the apartment – he’d used it all up on the flight. _Damn_. He grabbed his scarf and raced down the stairs, dialling his brother on the way down.


	2. John

Lestrade approached Sherlock at the doors, watching him intently as he got closer. His tall frame somehow looked frail. Even from a distance Sherlock looked… _scared_.

“Greg…” he rasped. His voice suddenly unable to make clear sounds. _Just breathe. Just wait._

Lestrade was taken aback. He always had to correct his name with Sherlock. Always.

“Yeah. Yeah it _is_ Greg. How did you…?”

“John. He made me spend the whole of Sunday learning your name. Wouldn’t let me have my cigarettes until I locked it in. Probably deleted something really important. But there it is. John is always such an optimist….” he let the words hang in the air for a moment his eyes glassing over as he looked at Lestrade pleading. “Tell me?”

“Car accident. He was unconscious when they brought him in.”  
  


“But I just saw him… only an hour ago! He was meant to come back to Baker Street tonight. How…”  
  


Greg had never seen Sherlock looking quite so lost and confused. It was unsettling.

“We’re waiting to hear more. It was an impact at speed. The doctors haven’t been very forthcoming as yet. But Sherlock, Mary…”

Sherlock had already stopped listening. “John?!” he yelled, immediately storming over to the nearest station to demand to talk to someone. “John?!” he shouted again as if John would be hiding under a random piece of paper on the desk. Greg started to walk cautiously over as Sherlock and a young frightened looking nurse argued back and forth until Sherlock slammed his fists on the counter and leaned right into her face. “I demand to speak to the doctor!”  
The nurse leapt from her chair and several passers-by stopped to stare. The waiting room filled with silence.

Greg moved faster and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, steering him from the counter. “Sorry. Sorry, I’ve got him. If the doctor could update us soon that would be great.” He gave the nurse a weak smile as she walked away from the desk still staring at Sherlock, with disapproval, but moving her feet as fast as they would carry her to find someone else to deal with the situation.

Greg steered Sherlock to the waiting area chairs. “Sherlock you can’t go shouting down the hospital. It won’t help the situation.”

“Why not? She was perfectly insufferable and deliberately unhelpful. She deserved that.”

Greg had known Sherlock for many years now. This reaction did not surprise him but the embarrassment of everyone staring at them was genuinely demeaning. He sighed as he watched Sherlock sit with a frustrated huff. _Arguing with him was not going to improve things_.

“We’re not family, they won’t let you in to see him yet.” Greg sighed, feeling slightly sympathetic. Sherlock really could be a big child at times. “Tea?”

Sherlock’s initial manic reaction had waned upon sitting still in a chair and while the banal offer seemed ridiculous at a time like this, he nodded weakly despite himself. His eyes remained alert, darting around the walls at signage and notices frantically hoping some information would fill in the gaps for him. Greg thought to himself that Sherlock must have either consumed a pot of coffee or many nicotine patches were at play. He suspected the latter.

“Perhaps no sugar for you then, hmmm?” he suggested to try and lighten the mood, to no response from Sherlock.

When he returned with two teas. Sherlock had mellowed considerably. The gravity and fear of the situation almost palpable.

“Is this what it was like before?” Sherlock asked quietly  
“Before?”  
“Is this how you all felt… how John… when I…”

The minutes sitting alone with his own fear had obviously brought the past to his mind. Lestrade looked sympathetically at his friend, realising what he was asking: How did they all survive when he faked his own death and they all thought they had lost _him_?

Greg moved to sit beside Sherlock. Sherlock was always pale, but his colour was worse than usual, moving to an almost sickly green hue from worry. Sherlock wasn’t often one to show genuine concern for another – unless it was John of course. Greg took a long sip of his tea, as if it would steel his courage to tell the story.

“Tell me what it was like. For John.” Sherlock pressed.

“Sherlock, when you…” he paused, trying to think of the right word “…jumped, everything sort of stopped for John. He was a bit lost I think, to be honest. We all were. I tried to help him, offered to talk. John’s not really like that, though, is he? He sort of just fell out of everything.” Greg checked how Sherlock was taking the information. But he was just staring at the ground, listening.

“He tried at first to stay in touch. Came out to the pub with us a couple of times but really, he just didn’t want to talk. He looked terrible when I saw him. He stopped shaving, then he clearly had stopped eating. Then the last time I saw him…” He didn’t know how to go on.

Sherlock looked up at the pause in Greg’s words, eyes pleading. “Go on.”

“I came to the flat to see him. To Baker Street. A few weeks after...I hadn’t heard from him in a while so I called Mrs Hudson. She asked me to come. John had locked himself in the flat and wasn’t eating or sleeping or speaking to anyone, or doing anything really and she was scared.”  
  


Sherlock’s face started to look more drawn than it already had. But he did not speak.

“Well when I got there, he was very, very drunk. The whole flat smelled of booze – I think he had probably spilled some on the carpet and it was clearly seeping from his pores. He was a mess, Sherlock. He had been crying. He was yelling at a photo of you from the newspaper he had pinned to the mirror and…”

Greg didn’t know how much to tell Sherlock. How much he could take at the moment.

“And what?”

“He had his gun.”

Greg heard the slightest intake of breath – almost inaudible. Sherlock made eye contact for the first time. Searching for more information. Greg continued on.

“He was stumbling about the apartment yelling at your picture – and crying. I had to pry the gun from his fingers, at which point he just sort of crumpled to the floor in a heap sobbing. He said he didn’t want to live without you and he couldn’t go on.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows had drawn together in pain, eyes fixed to a spot on the wall beyond Greg now, trying to picture the scene.

“Needless to say I called an ambulance and John was taken away from Baker Street and put into hospital care for a while. That’s where he met Mary. In the facility. Molly and I helped find him a new place while he was in there, so that when they released him, he could go somewhere new and stop dwelling on your ghost. Molly handled it very well although he was very prickly for a while after that. The next time I saw him he was settled into his apartment and doing well. I gave him some of your things and he seemed to be doing better. It was hard for him Sherlock. For all of us.”

“He never said anything about it.”

  
“Well he wouldn’t would he? John’s a soldier and a doctor. He’s proud and strong, and stubborn. You two don’t really talk about that stuff do you? Deeply personal things?”

  
“No. No, never.”

“But you both care a lot about each other…”

  
“Obviously.”

“Sherlock. He _will_ be ok.”

  
“You don’t know that, Lestrade, but I understand the sentiment you are trying to convey to make me feel better while I wait.”

  
“He will be. And when he comes through this can I make a suggestion?”

“A suggestion? For what?”

“For you. Tell him how you feel about him.”

“What?!” Sherlock spluttered dramatically, “what on earth?”

“Sherlock…”

“What for?! I don’t know what you’re implying!” He huffed incredulously. Greg answered with a knowing look that unsettled Sherlock. _How could he know that?_ “Besides. John… he has Mary. He doesn’t need me anymore and I don't think it's really necessary...”

“ _Sherlock!_ ” Greg raised his voice drawing attention from the waiting room again, so he lowered his voice. “Mary died today. In the accident. They were on their way home when it happened. Mary and the baby are both gone. He _is_ going to need you.”

Sherlock dropped his tea on the floor, drawing more stares, as he stood up suddenly. The guilt he felt at not even thinking to _ask_ about Mary pressed heavy on his shoulders. _Was his heart even beating? It felt like everything had stopped and was moving in slow motion._

“Where’s John? Tell me. Now!” There was a rage and a renewed insistence in his manner.

_That definitely woke the beast,_ Greg thought. “Sherlock, just stop.”

He tried to calm himself but he was moving his weight from side to side. _Too many patches and some added adrenaline!_ _Maybe five patches had been a bit of overkill, given the drugs already in my system from the plane. Too late now._

“WHERE IS HE!?” Sherlock bellowed, which drew some gasps and mutterings from their waiting room audience. A mother pulling her young child a little closer to her side, protectively.

Lestrade knew there was no point reasoning with him like this. “Ward 6. Room 607.”

He was already starting to run.

“Upstairs” Lestrade yelled after him as he ran full pelt past the group of shocked nurses and receptionists at the counter and didn’t stop. _I’m coming. John._


	3. A Bit Not Good.

He only slowed as he neared the room. Hospital security was already close behind but Lestrade had followed in pursuit and caught up to flash them his badge and explain. It was something he was fairly used to doing after all these years. It seemed to keep them at bay. For now.

Sherlock couldn’t seem to make his feet walk the extra few steps to reach the doorway and look into the room. _Why can’t I move? John is just a few feet away. He needs me._ With great effort, he got closer and as he rounded the doorway, he saw John’s figure, sitting up in bed, stoic as ever. _John_. Sherlock felt his gut finally unclench a bit. _John was ok._ Somehow he looked smaller though, lost. His hair was a mess, and he sat so very still. Deep in thought. Sherlock walked slowly and stood near the bed but not too close, to allow space to assess the situation and reassure himself John was really unhurt. John didn’t acknowledge his arrival – just stared at the wall.

He could see now that John had a cut on his forehead above his left eyebrow that had been stitched and his left arm was bandaged. _Possible broken wrist? Bruising?_ And he looked so aged. Like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“John.” He exhaled on a sigh of relief that his friend was ok, awake, and sitting.

John didn’t move. He just closed his eyes at the sound of Sherlock’s voice and a single tear made a track down his right cheek but he still didn’t move. He had never seen John like this, it was so out of character and he wondered selfishly if perhaps this was what John had looked like back at 221B after the fall. _Is this what I did to him?_ He didn’t like this John. He didn’t like it at all. __This John was broken. Cold. A shell.

“I’m so glad to see you’re ok.”

“Ok? Ok?!” John’s voice was dripping with restrained anger as he turned his head to look at Sherlock. “I’m far from okay, Sherlock.”

The knot in his stomach turned again but Sherlock dared himself to step closer to the bed despite the tone in John’s voice. “I’m assuming the doctors have told you already, then. About Mary? The baby?”

At the mention of them, John made a small choking sound. The sight of him like this, clearly trying to hold everything in was too much for Sherlock. They had always kept a respectful English civility as friends when it came to physical interaction, despite the way their eyes had spoken for them. But seeing him like this, broke all that for him. He stepped forward and reached an arm around John’s shoulders in a gentle show of support and pulled him a bit closer, being mindful of his bandaged arm. At the sensation of the contact, John crumbled further. A sob escaped his lips and he leaned his head into Sherlock’s shoulder in earnest.

“Sherlock…” he let out. In that one word, he knew John was willing him to stop. Instead, Sherlock put his other hand on John’s hair and from the awkward angle, squeezed in an attempt at a sort of hug which only made John’s tears come thicker and faster.

“It’s ok, John.”  
  


“No it’s not. She’s gone. And the baby. We were rammed, Sherlock. In our car. They died instantly – the driver as well. Sherlock, Oh Sherlock. The baby… I can’t…..” his words dissolved into gasping sobs. But just as quickly as it had started, he stopped it, with a sniffle. _Like he did at my grave_. Sherlock remembered how his heart broke seeing John so destroyed and yet so controlled, like letting out any more than that amount of emotion would break him forever.

“No.” John announced with new resolve, lifting his head from Sherlock's shoulder and straightening his own shoulders stiffly. “You can’t be here. I won’t go through this all over again. I’m done. If this is Moriarty, then this is _our_ fault. No. _YOUR_ fault! I don’t want any of this. _ANY OF IT_!” He pushed Sherlock’s arm away and smarted at the pain to his ribs and arm at the movement. “She didn’t deserve this!” he yelled. “Mary didn’t deserve this. Our baby. Didn't. Deserve. This. Leave me alone! Just stay away from me _Sherlock Holmes!_ ” he spat, and he lay down on the bed adjusting his pillows with a moan of pain and turning his back to show he was done with this conversation.

Sherlock stood in shock, ears ringing and unsure how everything had changed so quickly. _A bit not good._


	4. A Holmesian Standoff

Sherlock walked out of John's room, visibly shaken and confused.

_What did he mean? My fault? Surely John isn’t blaming me for the accident? I was nowhere near it! Why would he want my sympathy and then push me away like that? John is ok. Be happy with that, you idiot!_

Mycroft had arrived and walked with pomp, towards Sherlock, Lestrade following closely behind.

“Brother.” Sherlock was snapped out of his mind palace. _Oh great. Just what I need. Why is he here? Oh I called him. Good decision?_

“I see _you’ve_ added two more pounds” Sherlock sneered.

“Hardly.” Mycroft countered. “ _You’re_ clearly still coming down from your earlier drug cocktail I see.”

It was a frightening Holmesian stand-off. Lestrade never did understand the way these two greeted each other. _Was it their way of being affectionate? Who could tell?_ But he couldn’t control the half laugh that came out of his mouth in the form of a huff of air. Sherlock looked over at him with disapproval.

“Sherlock. You ok?” Lestrade said in attempt to win him back over.

“Yes, yes. Of course. Fine.” Sherlock stopped trying to think of something to say back to his brother. Secretly he was glad to see Mycroft, not that he would ever let on.

“And John?” Lestrade continued to check.

“Greg tell me what happened?” It still surprised Lestrade that Sherlock got his name right and he noticed Mycroft’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly beside him in equal surprise.

“We don’t really know who is responsible. They got away, but the car was rammed by a truck – looks like they ran a light. Driver escaped the scene. No trace on the origin of the truck yet.”

Sherlock observed Mycroft’s less than subtle eye roll and decided Lestrade was not the man to fill him in with details.

“ _I_ have a source looking into it. Come brother mine, I’ll get you back to Baker Street. Lestrade could you ensure Mary’s belongings are sent back to Baker Street to us and have the body transferred to the morgue? Miss Hooper can help us. Perhaps the body will give us some more insight.”

“Yeah, right. Ok.” Lestrade eyed them both up and down hoping to glean more information but deducing was not his talent and clearly the Holmes brothers had decided he was of no further use to them. “You’ll keep me informed?”

“Naturally” Mycroft drawled snootily. Greg knew that probably meant he would be left very much _out_ of the loop. But he could hope. As irritating as the brothers were, they did keep his record for case solves at a decent rate to be respected in house as a DI, so he couldn't really complain.

Lestrade caught a glimpse of Sherlock glancing back at the door to John’s room, brow furrowed and wondered what had passed between them. Sherlock looked almost wistful. If Greg thought Sherlock was capable, he would say Sherlock almost looked hurt and confused.

“Sherlock?” he asked

“Mmm yes” he snapped out of whatever thought had distracted him. But before Lestrade could ask, Sherlock had raised his coat collar and was back to business.

“Home, brother!”


	5. Brothers

The car ride to Baker Street was eerily quiet. Mycroft merely observed his brother and watched the emotions crossing his face as Sherlock gazed broodingly out the window, deep in thought. It had been a long time since they had been capable of openly showing care for one another, but countless times, Mycroft had wished sadly to himself that they might have practiced it more. That he should have made room for his little brother to share, to trust him with the inner emotions he was clearly grappling with. Instead, he opted for the safer option of observation and silence. He would let Sherlock lead. When he was ready, he would speak. They had fallen into a brotherly habit of teasing and competing but had somewhere along the line forgotten to foster the caring side of their relationship. Truth be told, it was one of Mycroft’s biggest regrets. But he just never seemed to be able to cross that threshold and so here they were, once again, where his little brother clearly needed him but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He knew how much John meant to his brother. Nothing had ever been discussed or confirmed, but only an idiot wouldn’t see what was between them. The scene at the airport made that awkwardly clear to all, including John’s wife, no doubt. The tension in the air was palpable then, but nothing compared to the tension in the air around Sherlock now. _What had John said to him at the hospital?_

At Baker Street, they entered the flat and Sherlock bounded straight up the stairs, completely ignoring Mrs Hudson who had come out to greet them, a look of concern on her face. Mycroft did hate having to be pointlessly civil, but he gave a perfunctory nod and slight upturn of his lips that wouldn’t really pass for a smile, more an acknowledgement, and followed his brother up the stairs. Sherlock had already draped his coat over his desk chair, scarf unravelled and draped over the skull on the mantel and he stood there, hands against the mantel, arms tense. As Mycroft hovered awkwardly, not sure whether to remove his coat - _would he be staying that long?_ He settled for placing his umbrella across the arms of the more shabby looking chair - probably John's chair, he thought to himself. Sherlock spoke:

“Mycroft. I need to know more.” Sherlock’s eyes went to the umbrella with a slight look of annoyance but said nothing about it.

“Of course, brother mine. Are you concerned about John? Do I need to have him brought here?”

  
“Not yet. He doesn’t want to see me right now.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn’t dare comment. Sherlock walked across to the window and picked up his violin, strumming it mindlessly and looking out at nothing in particular, as Mycroft continued,

“The doctors told us he will be released in a few hours once they clear him of any concussion. I could have him collected for you then?”

“No, need. John won’t come. Not yet. He will probably find his way back to Baker Street when he realises he has nowhere else to go. He won’t want to go home. Not now. He’s boringly predictable like that. “

“Yes, he is so frightfully dull. I can’t imagine what you see in him.”

“Don’t interfere there, brother dearest. You know not to. Besides jealousy is unbecoming in one so _old_ as you.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes again. “Jealous? _Me?”_

  
“Why yes. You really need to find yourself a companion of your own soon.”  
  


“Stop talking. Now.”  
  


The brothers used deflection and competition as a means of not only expressing emotion, but almost as a warm up to get the pistons firing before solving a really complex puzzle.

Sherlock’s lips smirked a small hint of knowing he had won this round. But quickly his expression changed to one of stern concentration and he returned his violin to its resting place with a final strum. “I need to know if this is Moriarty. Or if it was just coincidence. Somehow I think it is the former. Do you agree, brother?”

  
“Yes. I think so.” Mycroft countered, “You know I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Precisely.”


	6. You Need Him

Lestrade tapped gently on the door frame.

  
“I meant it Sherlock.” John said coldly without moving. The tone caught Greg off guard. It wasn’t like John to be so rude, he was always the one apologising for Sherlock’s behaviour and being polite. Sherlock must have really rubbed him the wrong way. Greg cleared his throat uncomfortably in the doorway. John realised it wasn’t Sherlock’s deep voice and turned slightly to look, wincing at the pain the movement caused.

“Oh. Sorry.” He said, in a tone that sounded something like an apology, but even Greg could hear the slight disappointment in his voice. He blushed slightly at his mistake. He wanted it to be Sherlock.

“John, I’m so sorry.” Greg tilted his head in sympathy.  
  
“Yeah.” John said, turning back to his pillow. Greg took it as an acceptance of his presence, and entered the room, moving the chair over to beside the bed and removing his coat to sit down. John made no protest so he settled into the chair.

“We’re going to do everything we can, John. We are on it already.” Starting with business where he was comfortable.  
  
“Well that’s reassuring, now that they’re dead and all.” John said sarcastically. Greg tried to ignore the barb.  
  
“And Sherlock…” Greg added.

“Don’t, Greg.” John was firm.

Greg knew when not to push a point. He sniffed awkwardly thinking of how to redirect the conversation. “Doctor’s say you will be released in a few hours if you get the all clear. That’s good isn’t it?”

“And where am I going to go, Greg? I mean really?!” John was struggling to stay calm and not take his anger out on him, his voice already rising in volume and he winced again at the rib pain that added. Greg had seen many a grieving spouse in his time. He knew John’s anger was not directed at him.

Greg and John were not close. Not really. They mostly operated as colleagues during a case, with the occasional attempt at menial friendship when occasion demanded it. When you had so few friends as John and Sherlock did, every person with any regularity in your life became the only friends you had. But when John fell apart, Greg had really been there for him. At his absolute worst. He couldn’t throw hate at Greg as much as he wanted to rage at someone. Greg knew that. Sherlock, though, he shared a much longer history that on the outside looked professional, but there was much more to their history John would never know. He had pulled Sherlock out of some really awful situations. Greg knew John was terrible at keeping up friendships or needing anyone in his life, just like Sherlock. He knew the boys appreciated him, in their way. He envied their friendship though. Sherlock and John had a connection Greg never had with anyone.

“You know you are welcome at mine, of course. Although since the split, it’s just a tiny one bedroom. I can take the couch though. You should sleep in a bed.” Greg offered.

“Oh Greg, no. Don’t do that. I’ll be fine. Honestly.” John sat up slightly in an attempt to show he was mostly just sulking and not incapable. “I have a house and a bed. I’m not homeless. I just don’t know if I can go back there tonight. But I’ll be ok.” John said apologetically.

“I understand that. I mean, my wife cheated on me and left me with nothing. It’s clearly not the same thing. But I know what you mean.” Lestrade said awkwardly.

John huffed but he understood it for what it was. A gesture of friendship. They sat in silence for a while.

“You scared him, John.” Greg finally broke the silence.

“Huh?”

  
“Sherlock.” At that, John rolled his eyes and resettled into his pillow wanting to ignore the topic.

“He doesn’t have many friends. You know that. I mean I’ve always helped him but I don’t even think he’d call me his friend to anyone else. And his brother. Well you know how they are. He doesn’t have anybody else. He’s struggled. Since he’s been back.” Greg paused, realising John may not appreciate that. “Not as much as you did before, probably, but he struggled. I’ve been watching him. I know you two think I’m not that clever, and maybe next to you two I’m not. I’m ok with that. But he loves you, John. You’re his best friend” Lestrade noticed John’s had closed his eyes and his brow was drawn in, painfully. He didn’t know if it was his words or his physical pain, but he continued, nonetheless, hoping he was helping somehow, “and he’s always cared for you in a way I’ve never seen him care about anyone or _anything_ else. Not even a good case. But tonight, when he came here, he was so scared he’d lost you.”

John couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t look at Lestrade. He just lay there eyes closed, deep in thought.

“Don’t be too hard on him. He needs you. And this is not his fault. You know that.”

“Greg…” John looked at Greg. His eyes said he couldn’t talk about Sherlock right now. He was clearly so angry and broken. But Greg had to try anyway.

“Just think about it, John. I know you’re angry at the world right now. And we will find who did this and make them pay. But you need him. You _need_ him. Don’t push him away now.”

“I’m tired Greg.” John closed his eyes again, signalling the end of the discussion.  
  


“It’s ok, I’m going to go. Let you rest some more before they release you. I have some leads to follow up on anyway.” Greg stood and put his coat back on, ready to go. Hopefully John had listened. “Call me…if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Mmm” John answered, in a non-committal grunt, not opening his eyes.

Greg pushed the chair back to the wall and walked out quietly. He had work to do.


	7. Sherlock

Sherlock lay on the couch letting his patches do the work. It was ever so much harder to think without John there. The skull had long since become useless. He had grown fond of the human element. John had a way of questioning _everything_ , which was irritating but surprisingly helped him to think so much better. But where _was_ John? It had been hours. Sherlock never kept time well but the traffic in the street below was considerably quieter – less bustle – so he deduced it was well into the evening, possibly the early hours of the morning by now. He had really thought despite their interaction at the hospital John would return here. _What had he meant? Never expected John to be that mad…at me._ He was beginning to really worry that John would not arrive, and was about to reach for his phone to contact Mycroft, begrudgingly, when he heard the sound of the door below.

_See? I was right. Predictable._ “Shut up.” Sherlock said to the empty room. He stood from the couch allowing his dressing gown to swirl as he moved. He did love a dramatic fabric.

The sound of the door was followed by a strange thud. And some mumbled words. Sherlock walked to the door expecting to greet John with a sassy remark of some kind to lighten the mood, only to find him at the bottom of the stairs in a heap.

“John? John! Are you alright?” Sherlock rushed down the stairs fearing something was wrong, only to be greeted by the strong smell of alcohol. _Perfect._

“John! What are you doing? You only just got out of hospital!”

  
“Couldn't go home. I’ve been walking…and thinking.” John’s words were slightly slurred, which Sherlock hoped was just from the apparent alcohol and not from concussion. _Doctors could never be trusted to diagnose properly –_ _they probably shouldn’t have released him so soon_.  
  


“And drinking. I think that would be a fair assumption” Sherlock jibed, more as a reflex, and he mentally kicked himself. _Don’t make him mad now that he’s come to you! Wait to see what he has to say first!_ Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked upward, as if that would quiet his brain with a stern look.  
  


“Good deductionenning, Mr Holmes. You were always, _always_ so good at the dedutrering…decurar… That… _thing_ you do.” John spat – _was it anger or wit?_ Sherlock was really struggling to define John’s mood and he didn’t like the unsettling feeling of not knowing where he stood right now.

“Excellent John. And you were always good at the word making, my blogger” he finally replied fondly as he grabbed John and started walking him up the stairs.

John giggled to himself. “Ahhh your _blogger_. I’m Sherlock’s _blogger_. Blogger blogger blogger. Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherloooock_.” He leaned heavier against Sherlock’s side as he said it, and Sherlock got a really good whiff of John’s usual cologne mixed with the heady sickly sweet scent of too much liquor, mixed with stale passive smoke - the scent making his inner addict wake up in the hopes of getting another cigarette.  
  


“Yes John.” Sherlock found it hard to hide the beginning of a smile although he felt more worried about this development and slightly unnerved by the way John was talking. Maybe he really _did_ have a concussion. And he was so much heavier now that Sherlock had to bear the full brunt of his dead weight. “Help me out a bit would you, you’re really dragging your weight!”

“You were always the pretty one, Sherlock." John said dreamily, ignoring his instructions. "Those cheekbones. That hair. Hmmm” he sighed to himself.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and gave John a strange sideways glance. What was he _saying_??

“You’re definitely drunk.”

“No, no. It’s not a drunk observation.” He said, pointing at Sherlock to correct him. It wasn’t very often Sherlock was wrong, so drunk John was clearly enjoying this. “It’s simply a fact. Wouldn’t you say?” John giggled to himself. Sherlock decided to steer the conversation to a safer zone.

  
“Well beauty _is_ just a construct…” _Surely John had no intention of saying these things to him?_  
  


“Oh here we go. I do _so_ love it when you start up with that rubbish.” John moaned.

“John! You’re really not yourself right now. I think you may need to sleep this off. Or you do indeed have a concussion? Perhaps we should go back to the hospital? I know you’re upset.” Sherlock chided as he brought John into the safety of the sitting room.  
  


“Upset? _Upset??!!_ Pfft. My wife DIED. My baby _DIED_!” He yelled to the room, swinging his arm around and lodging himself free of Sherlock. The lack of close contact to John was felt acutely by Sherlock, the heat gone from his side, and a worried feeling settling heavily in the bottom of his gut. “I think upset is an understatement, _Sherlock._ I’m _ANGRY!_ ”

“Ok… you’re angry.” Sherlock said in acknowledgement, unsure where to look or what to do, standing awkwardly a safe distance away.

“Yes. I am. That’s right” John gave a military nod. Satisfied that the statement should make everything clear, but his eyebrows gathered together in what Sherlock thought could be pain, but actually looked a lot like indecision, which was confusing. _Was he trying to convince himself of that fact or me?_

“Well, John” Sherlock put on his sincerest voice “I can’t imagine how much this must be hurting you. And I assure you Mycroft and I are already…”  
  


“Shut up Sherlock. I really don’t want to hear it from _you_.” He spat.

  
“What is _that_ supposed to mean? What have _I_ done?” He whined in shock, moving closer to John unintentionally. “Are you… are you angry… at _me_?” Sherlock had said the one thing out loud he didn’t want an answer to and realised he was dangerously close to the very unstable soldier.  
  


“You.” he pushed away from Sherlock and stumbled a bit, grabbing on to the edge of Sherlock’s chair to avoid falling, pointing at Sherlock with accusatory fierceness. “You are the reason…for all of it.” He was flailing his arms about the space between them in a comical attempt to communicate. If it wasn’t so terrifying, Sherlock would laugh. 

“You. There’s _always_ people getting hurt where you are involved. But never _you_. No. You can’t even die properly! It’s the rest of us left here that get hurt. Heartbroken. And now, it had to be Mary too. Mary and our _baby_. If you had just died properly this probably wouldn’t have happened.”

The silence between them after that statement was painful.

  
“Right.” Sherlock didn’t want to admit that it hurt. He knew John was drunk and angry but isn’t that when people are the most honest? He didn’t really ever think John could possibly _hate_ him. Not John. He was the one person in Sherlock’s life who had admired him when no one else did. Oh how he’d missed all of John’s compliments since he’d been back. _Brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing._ John had been less impressed with him in recent months, even coming back to life hadn’t impressed him as much as Sherlock had hoped.

“John maybe I should leave you to…” As he started to turn his back and walk towards his room, unsure how to finish the sentence.

John stood there staring at Sherlock, eyes wide, not sure what to say. It was like he had spewed out all the most hateful things he could say and had completely gone blank. He sank down into Sherlock’s chair. It smelled of Sherlock. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, reacting to the sound and John could see a flicker of annoyance on Sherlock’s face. _Sherlock’s_ chair. John was stubbornly taking over Sherlock's chair. Sherlock stayed in the room, seeing the change in his demeanor, standing awkwardly in the space.

“You’ve been smoking.” John mumbled as the scent of the earlier cigarette that lingered on the leather wafted to his nose. The complete change in mood had Sherlock confused.

  
“Hmmm? Oh, yes. Sorry. Just the one.” He said guiltily, turning back towards John. He couldn’t read the expression on John’s face but it seemed to be almost fondness? John was being quite the enigma. When Sherlock thought about it, he’d never really seen John out of control, other than a few times when he had lost his cool to anger. He’d never really experienced John like this before and he had no idea how to control the situation.

“I can smell it.” John said softly, almost on a sigh.   
  


“I was… trying to focus. Couldn’t.”

“Hmmm” John understood, nodding to himself.

He always understood. But now his eyes had taken on a dead quality, like the buzz of his alcohol had worn off and reality was sinking in again.

“Sherlock.” it was almost pleading. He looked over at Sherlock who was standing like a scolded child in the middle of the room. “I’m sorry. For what I said now. And earlier.” Sherlock walked over to him. John looked up at him properly now. “She’s gone.” it was said in a soft whisper, like he had only just registered it.

“Yes, she is.” Sherlock said gently.

“It’s not a magic trick this time.”  
  


“No. I don’t think so.”  
  


“I held her. She died beside me.”  
  


“John.” Sherlock kneeled in front of John so he could see his face better. “What can I do? What do you need?”  
  


“I…”

 _He looked so lost._ Sherlock didn’t like it but he had to admit, it was preferable to the aggressive hatred. He longed to hold him again. The embrace at the hospital was awkward and too brief but so comfortable, and Sherlock admitted to himself that he had longed to be that close to John again. He wanted it so badly, but John’s mood was swinging so unpredictably and now was probably not the time to risk a fist to the jaw.

“I can’t talk about this with _you_.” John said so softly, it was almost a whisper.  
  


“Why ever _not_ John? What an odd thing to say. We are friends are we not?”

“Friends. Sure. Sherlock. Of course. I just. I can’t. Ok?” John looked around, like a trapped animal that needed an avenue of escape.

Sherlock was perplexed by this statement. _Was John so angry that they weren’t even friends now?_

“Shall I make you a tea?” It was all he could think of to do, and he thought that retreating out of John’s personal space might make him more comfortable. The fact that John was struggling with them being friends any more, smarted. Sherlock felt a flush on his cheeks of humiliation.

John sighed. “Please.” Relief. Sherlock moved to the kitchen and start rustling around.

“Hungry? I only have body parts in the fridge but I can order in. Or perhaps Mrs Hudson has something downstairs…”  
  


At the sound of Sherlock doing something so normal and domesticated in the apartment with him, John let out a sob and began to cry in earnest. Sherlock turned in shock, teapot in hand already, and watched him from across the room, not sure what to do.

“John…?”  
  


“It’s fine Sherlock. Make the tea. Just leave it.” John closed his eyes and let the tears continue to roll down his cheeks silently, ending the discussion.  
  


Sherlock was never good with this sort of thing. Should he comfort? Should he ignore? He decided to focus on making the tea and raised his voice from the kitchen over the clatter of the kettle and cups.

“John I can’t really begin to imagine, though I can deduce obviously, that you are going through an emotional response to your current situation”

The ridiculousness of it made John let out a half laugh, shaking his head. Sherlock wasn’t looking, just avoiding eye contact and calling over his shoulder, keeping one eye on his tasks in the kitchen.

Sherlock went on. “But I assure you I can be useful as a friend. When the need is sufficient.”   
  


“Well that’s very magnanimous of you, Sherlock. Don’t strain yourself. But I’m fine. What could you possibly do anyway?” he huffed, dropping his head to his hands.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock paused, considering what to say. “I… worry, John.”

John looked up surprised. The pause in the conversation made Sherlock turn around and lock eyes with John. His blue eyes sparkled with the residue of the tears and looked…hopeful. Sherlock stopped what he was doing and turned his shoulders to face John properly from the kitchen.

“After what I’ve put you through. More than once. I worry…that this could break you.”

John closed his eyes, an extra tear slipping out and shook his head. “Sherlock. It’s fine. I promise I’ll be fine. In time. You can’t…I’m just sad. I loved Mary. She was my wife. We were supposed to be having a child. Of course I’m upset. It’s truly horrific. It will take me time to recover from that. That’s not why… “John stopped, taking in a gasp of air before his hand slapped over his mouth.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John looked at him and realised he had said too much. Clearing his throat he said so quietly, Sherlock almost missed it, “That’s not why I’m this upset.”

Sherlock walked over with cups of tea in hand. “Oh?” John was far more interesting all of a sudden. _Not crying for the dead wife. For Mary. This was a surprise._ Sherlock placed the teas on the side table and stopped, watching John wriggle in his seat at the realisation that Sherlock was now hyper aware of him and would be glaring at him until he confessed what was going on.

“Right, well you know I won’t be leaving this alone, until you finish what you’ve started there, John, but for God’s sake can we swap chairs – I can’t concentrate when I’m facing the windows!”


	8. John

John let out a bitter laugh of resignation, and sighing, stood up. He knew Sherlock. _Not as intimately as he wanted to, but he knew him._ He wondered if Sherlock had realised, had picked up on the little clues he was trying not to give up. It seemed like Sherlock noticed everything about everyone, but maybe not this. Somehow all these years it was like John had been immune to his deducing skills. All the secret fantasies he had kept in his mind as he glanced at Sherlock. His jealousy of The Woman, and with Janine. _How had Sherlock not noticed?_ He always thought that Sherlock would eventually see it and call him on it. That they would have ended up together much sooner than this or he would have been turfed out on the street for harbouring unnecessary _feelings_. In a way he was grateful. He wasn’t sure he was ready to take that step but he was surprised it had never come up before now.

When he watched Sherlock on that rooftop. His heart had stopped. He thought he would never recover - had nearly _not_ recovered. He had wanted to tell him the truth. This time, it was not like that. Losing Mary, the baby. He was devastated. But something else. He could never confess to Sherlock. Looking up at that beautiful man, seeing the concern on his face. Those cheekbones. That hair he just wanted to run his fingers through. That fine cut figure. _Oh god I drank too much. Did I say something to him or had that been just in my head?_ He was being so bloody attentive. Right when John needed to _not_ be under scrutiny. He had too much alcohol under his belt and no inhibitions. _This was not the time for Sherlock to get all deep and meaningful. And observant._

“What were you trying to concentrate so hard on?” John tried to deflect as they swapped chairs and he grabbed his teacup. Holding warm liquid would help him focus and sober up.

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked, confused by the change of topic, as he returned to the right side of the room, settling into his chair.

“The cigarette?” John reminded him, waving a hand towards the chair.  
  


“Oh, no, _no,_ John. We’re not doing _that_. You were already being far more interesting just now.” And with that, he grabbed his cup and leaned back into his comfortable deducing pose in his chair.  
  


“Since when have you bothered to listen to what I have to say?” John scoffed. _Now I’m really deflecting. Be careful, John. He’ll notice._ John took a calm sip of his tea trying to act natural.  
  


“I always listen.” Sherlock looked at John and remembered they knew each other too well. “Sort of.” John gave him a knowing look. “But now it’s so much more interesting. You were saying you aren’t sad about Mary?”  
  


“No I am.” John gave Sherlock a scolding look. Putting his tea cup back down on the side table. “I _am_. Of _course_ I am. God. That’s not what I was saying. I think I need a drink. Have you got something stronger than tea?” John really was avoiding the topic as best he could. It didn’t usually take much to distract Sherlock.  
  


“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Sherlock wasn’t one for rules or anything near being responsible but clearly now he felt like he should attempt to be.  
  


“Yes alright, Mum. Maybe I have. But I think under the circumstances…” he gave Sherlock his most persuasive eyes. Something his sister always hated him doing. He always won with that look.  
  


“Right. Of course.” Sherlock answered hurriedly in awkwardness and he stood immediately to fulfill the request. John could tell Sherlock was feeling awkward and unsure of himself and he was going to milk it for everything he could. He knew Sherlock would not argue or deny him a request right now because he felt guilty.

They remained in painful silence as Sherlock fetched the scotch and a glass. John recognised the bottle as one of Sherlock’s better bottles. He must feel guilty. _You have been rather rough on him today._ He took the first glass in a fast gulp, making Sherlock raise his eyebrows and hesitate but John held his glass out for another and he obliged. Sherlock placed the bottle on the side table and sat back down, grabbing his tea, while John started more slowly on the second glass this time. After a couple more sips of scotch, John was back to feeling heady and pain free.

“John, what do you think happened out there? With the car. Mycroft thinks it was Moriarty trying to end you all.”  
  


“Mission accomplished I’d say.” John huffed, his tone falling dead on the suddenly tense room.

Sherlock gave John a pitying look.

“Look I don’t honestly know, Sherlock. One minute we were arguing… _talking…”_ he quickly corrected. Sherlock noticed, _damn it_. He saw Sherlock’s eyes spark as he registered the correction.

“The next minute we were hit and she was gone.”

“Arguing??” Sherlock asked bluntly.  
  


“Not now Sherlock.” John interjected.

“You said, _arguing_?”

“Not NOW. Sherlock.” John raised his voice.

“And the person driving the truck that hit you?” Sherlock changed direction.

“Also died at the scene I believe.” John said in a flat tone.

“Strange. I suppose it could be a Moriarty plot. But a suicide driver? Seems strange to me.”  
  


“I called the paramedics and that was it. I lost consciousness.”

“Could have been just bad luck – an accident?” Sherlock suggested.  
  


“Perhaps” John took another sip of his scotch, and Sherlock sipped his tea watching John with predatory eyes while they paused. They had fallen back into their comfortable case solving rhythm for a brief moment and it felt good.

“Ok. Back to the argument.” Sherlock interrupted when he felt John relax again.  
  


“No. I’m not doing this.” John put his glass down as if to stand and leave.  
  


“John, you clearly need to talk something out. It’s eating you up. I’m not stupid you know, I can tell by the tension in your shoulders, your breathing, your pulse is clearly up…”  
  


John let out a sigh. _There really was no point arguing with him when he has deduced something._ “We argued. In the cab.”

“Obviously. About?” Sherlock sat forward in his chair, into detective mode, hoping, but not expecting to get an answer.

“About…you.”


	9. The Truth

_“We argued. In the cab.”_

_“Obviously. About?”_

_“About…you.”_

  


  


Sherlock stopped for a beat. _That was unexpected._ “About me? I don’t understand”

  


“After our goodbyes on the tarmac, the plane. I was mad. At you. I was so mad that you would…I was venting. Just venting. Mary hadn’t liked watching us, said she noticed some things." _Things? What did he mean?_

John was staring at his shoes intently and not looking at Sherlock. Avoiding eye contact.

  


" I got defensive. Things have been…strained lately. We argued. We always argued.” John started to choke up again and his eyes grew wide as he remembered it. “And that was the last thing we did before… before…” and his eyes began to well up in earnest.

  


“Oh John.” Sherlock felt so much more uncomfortable seeing John like this. He could handle his strong stoic attempts to not cry but John as an emotional mess? This was not something they had done together. Although he admitted the hugging would be an advantage he could enjoy. He remembered how it felt to put his arms around John in the hospital bed and longed for an excuse to do that again.  
  


“The thing is…" John cleared his throat. “The _truth is…_ she was right.” His voice had taken on a rasping quality, like his throat was trying to close up.

  


“Right about what?” Sherlock asked innocently.  
  


“All of it.” John said, resignedly.

  


“All of what?” Sherlock was clearly not understanding something about this. _What was he missing?_  
  


John looked at Sherlock. Really looked hard into him. He knew John’s looks. This look said: be serious.

  


“You know."

  


_Did he know? Maybe he did. Why was he looking at me so intensely_ ? “John, I’m not sure I _do_ know.” Sherlock didn't like feeling incompetent. But it was becoming obvious he did not understand.  
  


“You always know everything. _Everything_ before I do. Of course you know.” John shook his head slowly in frustration.  
  


“You argued about _me_ , though? What _about_ me exactly?” Sherlock’s brain was working overtime to understand where John was taking this and he had to admit he felt a bead of sweat breaking out on his forehead as he realised his brain was working over time.  
  


“She... Mary..." John clearly struggled to even say her name, as he paused. "She said she watched us say goodbye on the tarmac and she saw us on the plane. You, reading my blog. Like a suicide note.” John closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed, shaking his head and Sherlock already knew he was remembering the fall. _The other time a suicide note had been between them. It was always a weakness with John._ Finally he opened his eyes and looked up. At Sherlock. They stared at each other for a long moment not needing to say anything. It made Sherlock uncomfortable waiting to understand.

  


“Sherlock, she thinks…thought,” he corrected “you were in love with me. She thought we were in love. With _each other_. She was jealous. Always so jealous of us. I told her it was ridiculous. But she wouldn’t believe me. She said she couldn’t, she _wouldn’t_ compete and that she could see it plain as day.”

  


“Everyone says they can see it John. This isn’t the first time someone has implied…” He wasn't going to acknowledge Mary's fears. He well knew John didn't see him that way.  
  


“Sherlock.” John interrupted his thoughts.

He stopped and looked at John again. There was the look again. The all knowing look.

  


“What?” Sherlock’s heart had started to race unnecessarily. He did hate it when his body betrayed him. It was so irrational. _Surely he didn’t mean? Don’t be ridiculous, he_ never _means that. But why is he looking at me like that? Can he hear my heart beating that loud??_

  


“Well?” John was looking annoyed now, the way he looked when Sherlock broke some sort of boring human convention of behaviour. Like a parent waiting for their child to apologise for something.  
  


“Well, what?” Sherlock suddenly realised John was waiting for him to confirm this. He suddenly was acutely aware of his tongue and his saliva. The colour had drained slightly away from his face as he realised this might be a moment of truth. One he was not prepared to make just yet.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say.” Sherlock put his empty tea cup down hurriedly, the cup clattering on it’s side as it missed it’s mark on the saucer and making Sherlock jump nervously in his chair, giving away more than he wanted.

  
“Well?!” John pressed, leaning forward. “Was she right?” John let the question hang in the air and the silence made Sherlock’s ears start to vibrate with the discomfort and he suddenly didn’t know what to say. _You have to say something. He’s waiting. He’s staring. He’s not saying anything until you do._

  
Sherlock leapt from his chair suddenly. _Deflect Sherlock, deflect!_ “Well, was she right about _you_?! Why should _I_ answer first!?” Sherlock really had a flair for the dramatic when he wanted to let it shine.  
  
“Sherlock!” John scolded him for the ridiculous display. It never did work on John.  
  


“John this is _ridiculous_!” Sherlock wandered around the lounge carpet erratically, avoiding eye contact, allowing his dressing gown to swirl around his legs with each change of direction.

  
“Is it, though? Mary and I have spent way too many hours discussing this very thing and it made me start to wonder…”  
  


“I told you from the beginning. Married to my work!” Sherlock yelled in response, louder than he intended. He was silently kicking himself on the inside for using that pathetic line again, but he so hated being put on the spot about feelings. _This is not something that needs to be admitted to someone the day their wife and baby died. Someone who has been drinking and was acting very out of character. Don't admit anything until John does...my John._ "Shush!" Sherlock loudly whispered at himself, with another dressing gown flourish. He and his head would need to have serious words about this.

"Did you just shush me?" John sounded irritated. 

"Oh sorry, no. That was for me." Sherlock admitted.

John rolled his eyes and stood up with a grunt of effort. "Ok. Well _I’ve_ been drinking,” he said, as if reading Sherlock’s mind. ”So I’ll go first then.”

  


John always had a way of speaking to Sherlock that made him feel like a child and Sherlock blushed slightly from the scold. He stopped pacing in anticipation but also fear. His left shoe tapping uncontrollably and he couldn’t stop himself bringing his right thumb to his mouth and gnawing on his thumb nail. He didn’t care if it made him look like a nervous school girl. _I really shouldn’t have had so many nicotine patches._ Suddenly Sherlock was very afraid of what John would say. His eyes darting to the floor and back at John impatiently.

“Ok…” Sherlock put his best defensive posture on. If his black coat had been on, his collar would have been up for sure. He could bluff this out.

  


“Sherlock, the reason I’m upset… is.” He paused to steel himself with a slight nod. “…is because I think she was right. I _know_ she was right. _The truth is_ she was right. About me at least.”

  


Sherlock turned and looked John square in the face his arms dropping, mouth slightly agape, not expecting that at all. _Wait…what?_  
  


“I…I _am_ sad, terribly sad. Obviously. Devastated even that she is gone. Things were not great between us. It had been months of fighting. And I was exhausted. We were never going to survive that marriage. And I know I’ve been drinking tonight. It may take a while for it to really hit me that it has happened and I intend to make you find out who is responsible and bring them to justice.”

  


“Of course” Sherlock interjected, his heart racing internally in anticipation.

  


“Naturally.” He flashed Sherlock a business like smile – the ones they gave each other during a case and it started up a little warm spark inside Sherlock which was quickly followed by a dropping feeling in the pit of his stomach. _Of course. John just needs me to solve the case. What was I thinking._

  


John continued: “But I was upset _more_ because I know she was right about me. And when she died.” He started to choke up again. “I felt… relief.” He started to cry in earnest. Sherlock didn't dare move or speak. It was like his brain had short-circuited and he couldn't process it yet.

“Jesus. I can’t stop these!” John wiped the tears away but more just took their place and the words began to flood out of him like a burst dam. “I felt relieved that I was free, after everything, after staying with her when she shot you – I’m so sorry about that. It must have been so hard for you to have me do that to you, to us. And naturally I feel so guilty. So horribly inhumane. It’s like something _you_ would do. Sociopathic. I’m clearly insane.” He let out a hysterical giggle and wiped away more tears now. “When I saw you walk in my room at the hospital I felt almost elated. I’m so disgusted with myself.” John closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side, clearly disappointed in himself. Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing. Surely John didn't mean this.

“When you appeared after all that time I had grieved you, and I was sitting there with Mary about to propose, I felt… guilty. Like I hadn’t waited for you long enough. Like if I had just wallowed longer and had more faith, you would have come back to me. But I gave up and moved on. And then there you were. Standing there all gorgeous in front of me and it was too late.”

  


Sherlock had started moving towards John. Like in a trance. His feet were walking towards him and he couldn’t stop them. His heart was pounding in his chest – _surely John could hear that? Wait...did he just say gorgeous?_

  


“So… Mary was right?” Sherlock asked in a mix of tentativeness and confusion.

  


“Uh-huh” John sniffed and cleaned his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

  


“About you? She was right about you?” He checked. Still not able to fully comprehend and not wanting to miscalculate.

  


“So it seems.” John nodded in affirmation, giving Sherlock a weak and embarrassed smile.

  


“But…” John looked at him quizzically. “But you’re not gay, John. You said it a thousand times.” Sherlock said. _This can’t be right. Maybe I brewed the wrong tea?_

  


“No. I’m not gay.” John agreed. "At least I don't think so." John tipped his head to the side to think. "No...I don't think so."  
  


“So. Wait. I don’t understand…” Sherlock stopped. Maybe he was completely misunderstanding this.

  


“I’ve never been with a man before, Sherlock. It’s not something I even thought about. But you. You are not an ordinary man.”  
  


“Well, that’s true isn’t it?” They both smiled knowingly at each other. This was what they had both missed. This knowing friendship. John went to step closer to Sherlock, a little wobbly on his feet. Sherlock stepped forward in support and grabbed his elbows instinctively to steady him and the contact was electric. _Can he feel that the way I feel that?_

  


“Sherlock, I think I’ve always known. There was something about you, from our first ever day together that set you apart from anyone I’ve ever known. You’ve shown me such loyalty and such adventure, like no one ever has. We’ve been through so much. I mean, maybe it’s just that I miss you when I’ve been living away. Maybe this is misplaced emotions. But I think it’s more. At least it seems to me to be.”  
  


They stood staring at each other. Sherlock had unexpectedly felt a sting behind his eyes at John’s words. _Is this sentiment? How ridiculous!_ _Pull yourself together._

  


“Maybe you’re right and I’m just drunk and not right in the head after the accident. And I know you said you were married to your work…”  
  


“Stop.” Sherlock’s voice came out harsher than he meant.

  


“What?” John’s face dropped.  
  


“Just stop.” John stepped back out of Sherlock’s grasp and the silence between them was electric. Neither of them could speak.  
  


Sherlock could see the look on John’s face and his heart sank. _Oh no._ He could see this was exactly what John had been dreading. _Why did he care so much?_ Now John had admitted to feelings he shouldn’t be having at a most inappropriate time and his best friend was going to tell him so. He needed to speak quickly and reassure him, but he just didn't know how to do this. Sherlock opened and closed his mouth twice trying to figure out what to say before he pressed forward.

  


“John, I’m not good at this sort of thing. People don’t like me much. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.” Sherlock stuttered awkwardly.  
  


John huffed. “I know, Sherlock. I didn’t mean to…” Sherlock held up a hand to silence him.  
  


“I...The thing is, when we met, I…well I don’t open up to people easily – at all really. You were asking personal questions about relationships and I was embarrassed that I didn’t have any to speak of and didn’t want to admit to such things when we had just met. I didn’t know if I could trust you yet.”  
  


“I know.” John encouraged tentatively. A trace of a smile on his lips. He knew Sherlock.  
  


“But by the end of that day, we had been through so much, you had saved my life and I realised you weren’t just a boring, _ordinary_ person.” Sherlock spoke proudly as if this would solve everything.  
  


“Gee thanks.” John wasn’t impressed and Sherlock wasn't sure this was going in the right direction.  
  


“John. You know what I mean." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But you followed me around faithfully, complimented me all day and closed the day off by shooting a man to save my life, all whilst not irritating me. It was one of the best days I had ever had. And every day since then has been like that with you.”

John smiled shyly at him. Renewed tears glossing his eyes. Maybe this wasn't going so badly.

  


“The two years I left you...” Sherlock began again.  
  


John cleared his throat and looked at the ground awkwardly not really wanting to think about that.

  


“They were… torture.” Sherlock finally admitted.  
  


John looked up surprised, straight into Sherlock’s beautiful blue shining eyes and Sherlock let a small edge of a smile grace his lips at John’s reaction to his words.

  


“John. I heard you, as I was lying there on the pavement. I heard you. Then at my grave. I was there. I saw what I was putting you through. But I did it anyway. To save you. They would have been watching you. You had to be seen to grieve me, just in case. I was protecting you. I know I hurt you by doing it, but I don’t care. I would do it all again. For you.”  
  


John looked shocked and Sherlock could see he had clenched his jaw in irritation. It was ever so sexy when he did that. But Sherlock knew he was treading a very dangerous line sounding so cold about something that had cut John so deeply.

  


“I did it to save you and I’m not sorry for that. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry for the hurt it caused you. I’m sorry I took so long to return. But I’m not sorry it saved your life.” Sherlock stated arrogantly.  
  


John couldn’t really argue with him. But Sherlock could see he needed to keep going to move past this before John dwelled too long.

  


“When I was ready to return I was expecting you to still be at our flat, waiting for me I suppose, in truth. And when you weren’t, I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand I was happy to see you and wanted desperately to tell you everything. But then you had Mary. So I always tried to keep a respectful distance. She was what you wanted. You loved her. When she shot me, I wanted you as far from her as possible –to spare you. But I knew you loved her and you wouldn't leave. And why would you? She's beautiful and interesting. I understand her… Under _stood_ her.”  
  


They exchanged sad looks at the realisation of his mistake. And Sherlock stepped away from John feeling guilty, turning his back on John.

  


“John I would never wish this upon her. I hope you know that. I loved Mary too.”  
  


“Of course.” John agreed.  
  


“But having said that…” the pause was so heavy as John waited. Sherlock took a deep breath and turned back to look John in the eyes. “Yes. She _was_ right.”  
  


“She was?” John stepped instinctively closer to Sherlock again for reassurance.  
  


“Oh Yes.” Sherlock nodded slowly.  
  


John looked up into his eyes. A little bit unsure if Sherlock was really saying what he thought he was saying.

  


“It seems I’ve always known -since the beginning. And I’ve wanted to tell you so many times but I didn’t want to ruin the friendship or lose you. You were also my blogger after all.” Sherlock smiled briefly, almost wistfully. “I didn’t think you could feel the same way about me, although there were times I thought I saw glimpses of you…”  
  


“You did.” John agreed softly.

  


“But I would never take advantage of a situation like this and expect you to just drop everything an…”  
  


Before he could even finish talking, John had stepped closer. “Sherlock. Shut up” he whispered.  
John stepped the final distance until their bodies were just touching. They looked straight into each other’s eyes and Sherlock’s heart rate felt like it had reached lethal levels. He had never believed in the nonsense couples spoke of during cases – about love, or romance, or lust. But now he was starting to understand. He could barely breathe from the feeling of his heart pounding in his throat.

  


“You’ve felt this way the _whole time_?” Sherlock asked a little shy all of a sudden at the close contact.

  


“Yeah, so? So have you!” John teased defensively.

  


Sherlock let out a breath of air It felt like he had been holding his breath for years and was finally able to take in oxygen. “Quite so. My blogger. My doctor.” He smiled as he said it.

  


John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes uncertain all of a sudden of whether to move. Sherlock’s heart melted at the way John’s eyes still glistened from the crying and he wanted to hold him so badly. Sherlock lifted his arms up tentatively and placed his hands on John’s face, gently. It felt like the strangest out-of-body experience. Being allowed to touch him this way. Something he had imagined and dreamed of so many times was actually happening and John was letting it happen. His skin was so soft, but with a hint of the stubble starting to build up. Sherlock wiped the remnants of a tear from John’s cheeks with his thumbs, the feel of the salt water tingling his fingertips.

“I never thought I’d ever be in this position…with you.”

  
John answered with a gentle smile. Sherlock couldn’t wait any longer he leaned in and placed his lips gently to John’s. They were softer than he expected, damp from the crying and he tasted of salty tears and scotch with the scratchiness of stubble. The mix was erotic. John brought his hands to Sherlock’s waist and held on as they sank into the kiss deeper. Sherlock let out a small sigh, which John couldn’t help but answer. The sensations were much deeper than anything John had ever felt. With anyone. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and pulled him in closer, he needed to feel him so much closer.

  


“John” he whispered.

  


“Sherlock” John sighed back with a little giggle that followed. He did not expect it to feel so right. It was like he had waited his whole life to be in this moment.

  


Suddenly the kiss became more frantic, frenzied like they only had a small amount of time to fit all the years of wanting in. Guilt forgotten, John grabbed at the back of Sherlock’s shirt and pulled it out of its neatly tucked position, running his hand up onto his warm skin. Sherlock flinched from the unexpected contact and then started to peel John’s jacket back from his shoulders and crept his hand into the edge of his shirt collar to rub his neck, running his hands to the front and starting to unbutton the front to get more leverage and feel that same skin contact for himself. “ _God, John, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined this…”_ he whispered between kisses. Their mouths were increasing the intensity and probing and finding solace. The roughness of their stubble against each other made it all the more electric – a sensation John had never experienced before but he found he loved it. _“Jesus, Sherlock. You should come with a warning label.”_ Sherlock laughed in a low rumble that set John’s pulse racing and Sherlock loved the feel of John’s tongue and the lingering scotch taste just made it feel slightly naughty – as if this was somehow more elicit an activity because there was alcohol involved. The pace was increasing and their breathing was turning to panting and breathless gasping, when suddenly Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

  


“Ugh seriously?” he growled in frustration.

  


“Ignore it” John gasped. His phone also began chirping from the side table but neither of them wanted to stop.

  


Suddenly the door opened, interrupting them.

  


A gasp and a throat clearing drew their attention to the doorway.

Lestrade was standing mouth gaping and eyes alternating between trying to look and wanting to investigate the floorboards intensely. Mycroft beside him eyebrows raised high enough to be mistaken for a hairline.

  


“Well Brother, it seems we caught you at an inopportune time…” Mycroft had a wicked smirk on his face. One that Sherlock dearly wished to remove.

  


“We tried to call first” Lestrade stuttered apologetically.

  


“Oh god” John groaned and let go of Sherlock so quickly, Sherlock’s stomach dropped with dread. _He’s mortified._ _John’s embarrassed to be seen like this with me, I knew it._

  


“I think I’m going to be sick” John groaned, as he ran to the kitchen sink and relieved himself of the contents of his stomach.

  


Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother. “Thanks for that, Mycroft.”

  


“I would think you should be _thanking_ me. Timing.” Mycroft snarled defensively.

  


Lestrade interjected to break the tension: “You can’t seriously be cross with us! There’s no way we could have expected to see this upon entering your flat! After all these years.” He exclaimed like an impetuous child.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, are you alright?” he called concerned, but John had set the tap to running and was still duly occupied.

  


Lestrade let out a huff and changed the subject quickly. “Right, well Sherlock, we’ve found a connection. From the accident. You boys might want to clean up and come down to the station.”

  


Sherlock looked surprised and a little impressed. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  


Lestrade and Mycroft both gave him a knowing glance to which Sherlock answered with a large dramatic eye roll. “Ugh! John obviously needs to clean himself up first, don’t be so childish! We can meet you there. _Goodbye!_ ” Sherlock pushed them out the door and slammed it behind them, leaning against the door to gather his thoughts. Mycroft and Lestrade had looked suitably chastised, but Sherlock could hear them breaking out into giggles down the stairs which he shook his head about as he headed to the kitchen to check on John who was hanging over the sink, gasping after emptying the limited contents of his stomach into it.

  


“Right then. A strong coffee for you, I think. I told you that scotch was a bad idea.” Sherlock said brightly as he pushed himself off the door and headed to the kitchen. _Best to get back to normal that's what he needs._

  


“Sherlock…” John began.  
  


“John. Don’t worry about it honestly. They won’t tell anyone else. They can both be discreet.” John gave him a doubtful look, “Let’s forget about the whole thing and clean you up and head down to the station. I for one want to know what they’ve found. It’s been a rough day for all of us and it’s understandable that things got… confused. I understand.” _Keep moving, avoid eye contact._  
  


“But Sherlock…” realisation dawning on John. Sherlock was backing down and shrinking away from him already.

  


“I won’t hear it John. I’m boiling the kettle now. You had a ridiculous drunken moment and it’s ok.” He began fussing with the kettle, back turned on John.

  


“Sherlock…” John raised his voice slightly, trying to get his attention.

  


“It can all be forgotten. Honestly. You go and wash up. I’ll get the coffee sorted.” He grabbed the lid off the kettle and ran the water into it as he fussed about for a spoon, clattering things in the sink distractedly with his other hand.

  


“SHERLOCK!” Sherlock leapt at the harsh tone in John’s voice, dropping the kettle lid loudly to the floor.

  


“Sorry.” John said sheepishly, eyes closed to the sudden noise, “but you were starting to do that thing you do. And I won’t have it.”

  


“What thing?” Sherlock said defensively, not making eye contact. Bending down to grab the lid from the floor.  
  


“You’re apologising already for something I’m certainly not sorry for.” John said gently.

  


Sherlock stopped and turned around to find John right behind him. “I’m not sick because they saw us, or because of what we’ve done. I’m not embarrassed. Is that what you think? Is that what you’re worried about? I don’t regret it. I’m sick because I’ve consumed a lot of alcohol and it’s been an emotional evening. Sherlock… “ John put a hand gently to his face. “I love you. Do you hear me Sherlock Holmes? I love you and I’m not embarrassed, you crazy, gorgeous, detective. I’ve always loved you. Thank you for pushing me to say it.” He smiled.

  


Sherlock let out a sigh of relief which came out in more of a sob than he wanted it to. He didn't like it when his emotions betrayed him. “Well I’m not kissing you right now, just so you know.”

  


John sighed, and rolled his eyes “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. I’ll go clean myself up shall I? You make that coffee.” John ran a hand down Sherlock's arm reassuringly before walking out of the kitchen.

  


“There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet.” Sherlock called out over his shoulder and smiled as John left the kitchen “And John?” John stopped walking.

  


“Hmmm?” he acknowledged as he turned back to the detective.

  


“I love you too.” John just let that statement sit in the air and Sherlock saw his shoulders relax instantly, like he had been waiting to hear it. He beamed at Sherlock with the most relaxed and happy smile Sherlock had ever seen on his face. He made a note in his mind palace to find ways to make John smile like that more often from now on. They both stood there grinning at each other for a moment, imagining the kiss from earlier and trying to decide what to do next, until it was getting ridiculous.

  


"Right. Coffee then?" John broke the silence with a lift of his eyebrows to remind Sherlock they had places to be.

"Right. Yes, of course. I'm on it." Sherlock gave a little hop on the spot, snapping out of the reverie.

They smiled gently at each other one more time before going in their separate ways to get ready but they both knew the truth.

Things were going to be very different from now on.

  


THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for being so supportive. I'm just beginning the journey and it's been so lovely to finally put my words out there as a writing exercise for myself and to gain some confidence and get such lovely supportive comments back from you all. What a lovely community you all are! Thank you. I'm still learning but the encouragement really helps.


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